chapter 11
Wen passes my tablet back to me, her eyes wide like sausages. She’s lying on the bed, propped up on one elbow, staring at me as if I’ve grown horns. She has just read the first smut I’ve ever written.
“Where the hell did you learn all these things?” she asks in a still-shocked voice, rolling her head against the pillow.
“From fellow authors, by reading their smut.”
“Is this even accurate? Because without first-hand experience, you can’t possibly know all this.”
I chew on my bottom lip. “I don’t think it’ll be much different. I mean, other authors must have experienced these things, and besides, I’ve watched videos too, so I’m not completely clueless, you know?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “You’re still a virgin even in terms of kissing. You couldn’t be more clueless. I’d recommend a very solid proof-reading of this book. And seriously, why the hell do you even need to write smut? You’re already selling insanely well without it.”
“But isn’t smut really in demand in the market?”
She waves her hand like it’s the dumbest thing she’s ever heard. “You’re a best-selling name in fantasy. You’ve got a huge audience of underage readers. You don’t need to chase trends. You are the trend, babe.”
This girl could motivate me to fight the whole damn world if she wanted.
I roll back in my chair, shrugging. “Alright, I won’t take the headache of writing smut.”
She nods, already lost in her phone screen.
In the next moment, she sits up suddenly. “Hey, look, our brothers are trending in the media again.”
I lean over to glance at her phone. “Nothing new. People have gone crazy over them. They’re literally every other girl’s dream prince.” I don’t bother hiding the bitterness in my voice.
She chuckles. “Isn’t it good that they’re so famous like this?”
“Girls keeping their posters on their bedroom walls doesn’t seem good to me.”
There are thousands of images online of girls fangirling over them. Whenever I search his name, a new flood of fans takes over my screen. A shocking number have even tattooed his name, or worse, his face on their skin. Wen always finds their obsession amusing.
I don’t have any problem with girls running around Leo, but I can’t stand it when they orbit around my adopted brother.
Mama told me the day we brought him into our family that I was never to mention his adoption, and that I had to treat him as my real brother so he wouldn’t feel like an outsider.
And I did exactly that… for years.
Until the truth, him being adopted, started giving me a sense of relief.
Relief… and permission.
Because I can’t live with the shame of wanting to do things with my brother unless I remind myself—again and again—that he isn’t my blood.
That there’s nothing shameful in the fantasies that now pour forth in my books, where the male main character is him, and the female main character is me, just disguised under another skin.
“Holy shit.” Wen’s voice breaks into my thoughts.
“What happened now?”
She shoves her phone in front of me.
It’s an article about the concert she played a few days ago.
There are pictures of her on stage at the piano, then stepping into her car afterward. It’s a model built by Leo’s automobile company, custom-made and so unique that anyone with half a brain can tell it costs entire GDPs to afford.
The headline reads: ‘Cinderella Got Her Prince Charming.’
“Why the hell do these people think I’m poor?”
No one out there even knows our fathers have daughters, everyone believes they only have sons.
We’re famous under our pen names and stage names.
That anonymity is the only reason we can still walk the streets without being hunted.
Because once the world learns of our existence, freedom will be over.
Our fathers and brothers stand at the very top of the food chain.
They are not just powerful, they are the power of entire country. And power like that breeds enemies.
“Maybe it’s because of your stage name, which is literally Ella,” I laugh.
She throws her phone onto the bed with a huff. “But it’s not Ella from Cinderella.”
My laughter only grows louder, my head tipping back.
“Don’t laugh so hard. Did you forget about the article that said, ‘Finally, you and your family can afford a good living since you’re now a bestselling author’?”
My laugh cuts off mid-breath, and hers begins instead. “That’s also because of your pen name, which is literally Ash Penny.”
I flare my nose in mock offence, glaring at her. “Not funny.”
Zloban (23 years old)
Leo explains the proposal once again to the President of Canada, but the bald old man continues to brush him off with the same half-hearted seriousness as before. His dismissive tone is seeping under both our skins, testing the edges of our patience.
Leo turns his eyes toward me, the question unspoken but clear. Should we kill him? I give the slightest shake of my head. No. Not yet. We need the man alive.
“Mr. Caleo, I hope you’ve understood the point,” Leo speaks in his deceptively light tone.
The President nods. “It’s difficult to make such a decision. I can’t simply go with the words of two boys, can I?”
The urge to end him flashes in Leo’s eyes.
He rises slowly from his chair, and the movement alone commands the room’s attention.
Four men tense instantly. The two bodyguards prepare themselves to fight, their hands twitching near their holsters.
The President and Home Minister, however, wear the look of cornered prey, already preparing themselves to flee.
“The decision has already been made, Mr. Caleo,” Leo says in very calm voice. “Either you work for us, or you won’t work at all.”
“You can’t force us to accept your proposal.”
“Only an idiot would think it was a proposal in the first place,” Leo replies evenly.
The bodyguards stiffen further, knuckles whitening, muscles twitching just seconds away from pulling their weapons. But before they can even draw, both collapse to the ground with twin holes in their foreheads.
Leo smirks, tilting his head. “Is it easier to make your decision now?”
The two old men exchange a horrified glance before turning toward me. I remain seated in complete ease, my posture relaxed. Their terror deepens, not because of the dead men at their feet, but because they never saw me fire.
The weapon, no larger than my palm, rests loosely in my grip, it’s small enough to disappear from their sight, but deadly enough to snatch their lives in silence.
“You… you smuggled a weapon inside,” the President stammers, voice trembling like brittle glass.
I shrug with indifference. “Your security check is cheap.”
Then my eyes shift lazily to the Home Minister. “Hands. On the table.”
He freezes mid-motion, caught reaching for the hidden alarm beneath. If he had pressed it, it would’ve only led to more blood outside this room, and a waste of our valuable time.
Leo knocks lightly on the table. “We don’t wish for bad blood. You will simply resign from your position, as you are clearly not a capable president. Any delay in this matter will not be appreciated.”
I rise from my chair, and together we walk out of the chamber. Neither of us speaks until we reach our car, our men closing in around us.
“Declan is still flying,” Leo mutters.
I nod.
Declan is the true power behind the Canadian government. The President draws his misplaced confidence from the illusion that Declan can protect him. But the reality is far less flattering.
Once the President resigns, we will place our man in power. And he will resign peacefully. Declan’s corpse will make sure of that.
Leo glances at me, a tilt forming at the corner of his mouth. He can read the anticipation in me, my hunger to hunt the Canadian beast, even on a face designed never to betray emotion.
A single twitch of muscle is enough for him to know exactly what I’m thinking.
He is the only man alive who knows all of my secrets, including my most morally deprived obsession.
He knows the depth of it, the sickness of it, and the effect it has on me, just as I know about the bone-deep fixation that governs him.
In Matleon’s world, every emotion is carefully catalogued, weighed, and weaponized, each one arranged in perfect order for his use. All except for one feeling he has never been able to rationalize, no matter how hard he tries.
I take out my phone, checking on her. She’s lying on her bed with her phone in hand. I zoom in on her face. She’s chewing her bottom lip, her cheeks flushed a shade too obvious, proof she’s once again reading smut.
“It’s creepy,” Leo sighs.
“At least I’m admitting it.”
“I don’t stalk her twenty-four seven.” He says.
“Because you can’t.”
He glares. “I’m not obsessed with her,” he repeats the same lie he tells himself again and again.
I smirk. “Denial suits you.”
The intensity of his glare deepens.